


Red

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Burlesque, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Eros Katsuki Yuuri, Fluff, Inspired by tumblr's runesque, Lingerie, Lolololo that's a pun, M/M, Non-Chronological, Pet Names, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 15:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10902387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: Dressed in little more than black gossamer, Eros had poised himself inside of his dressing room’s doorframe with a tube of lipstick between his painted fingers, the makeup’s ruddy tip already conformed to his lower lip. It was like watching the Cheshire reappear, one swipe of his smile at a time. He purred,Do you think, Mister Nikiforov, that if I tried veryhard,I could make you redder than Russian Red’s namesake?





	Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Papiermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papiermoon/gifts).



**Disclaimer:** No.

 **Author’s Note:** [This beautiful comic by runesque](http://runesque.tumblr.com/post/157095512644/victuuri-week-day-four-free-for-all-since-i-felt) haunts me in my sleep. 

**Warnings:** Burlesque AU. Time jumping. Fluff? No beta, edited once.

**XXX**

**Red**

**XXX**

“I had a dog named Viktor once.”

Eros smiles around his cigarette holder, its tip resting prettily against his lower lip. Those lips are painted Russian Red again— _my favorite lipstick for my favorite client_ — and the way that they contrast the holder’s obsidian shaft is a sweetly sinful sight, even detached from the man they belong to. 

( _A terrible habit_ , Eros had sighed ten weeks ago, the first word chained to the next chained to the next by links of smoke. _I picked it up from my sister, of all people. What an awful role model for a child._

_You could quit._ Viktor— panting, blissed out, and glowing— had only realized the stupidity of his suggestion upon hearing its echo in his ears. His flush spread, spilling over his collar and down his chest. As if no one would have told him that before. As if it were that easy.

Eros only chuckled. _I could,_ he agreed, and didn’t.)

“‘Viktor?’” Viktor colors, the sweat on his arms seeping into the pillow that he hugs. Goose feathers shift; he does the same, looking up at the man who had been toying with his hair, had been tracing its whorl. Crimson and gold eiderdown caresses his naked sides, much as Eros always caresses him: With warmth, delicacy, and just a bit of distance. “That’s… an awfully strong name for a dog. What sort was he? Something big and powerful, surely.”

“He was a toy poodle.” The smile is a smirk, now. Eros’ lashes flutter like the lace fans in his armoire, his voice as gorgeously dark as scattered lingerie. “A sweet, excitable thing. Very needy. I called him Vicchan.”

(He didn’t stop sharing, either. Little things. Quarter truths. Half lies.) 

Viktor hums, enthralled. The heart of his mouth is pressed to Eros’ thigh; the heart in his breast is throbbing, full of joy and uncertainty over what to do with this new information, even as his brain fills with pretty thoughts about _fate_. About _destiny_. He wants to ask _Eros’_ name. Then he wants to ask Eros to marry him. 

He asks instead, “What makes you think of this now?” 

( _I have anxiety_ , Eros had confessed a few weeks after that, the pinkness bridging his nose a perfect complement for the ribbons on his basque. One stockinged foot was rested beside Viktor’s nape; the other was tracing idle rings over the bedspread, the sound silken and silvery. When he exhaled, the smoke on his breath was the same. Lissome fingers twiddled with the cigarette holder for a moment before he set it on the nightstand, muttering at the lamp, _Cheaper than meds, you know?_

Viktor swallowed. There was still the taste of salt on his tongue. 

_I know,_ he said. And that was a truth, too: More private than anything that had come before it.) 

Eros chuckles, wiggling just enough to jostle the Russian where he lay. Viktor squeaks; his lover whispers, “I suppose I’m just realizing how appropriate it would be to call you that, given your… _preferences._ ”

He lilts the answer so lightly, it all but floats away. Its insinuations, however, are less evanescent; they linger on, and soon Viktor is an impressive match for the lipstick that Eros wears to tease him. 

“You mean… that I’m needy?” That is not what he means. 

“That is not what I mean,” Eros confirms, bright eyes twinkling. The pressure of his cigarette holder makes a sharp “V” of his lips. Viktor gasps into the sharp “V” of his hips. 

“Eroooos,” he whines, scandalized. His blush is probably blistering the other’s bare skin. 

( _T-That’s not my name,_ Eros is going to say in half a year’s time, the words as soft as any nightie. His flustered gaze will be askance, and a garter belt will be stretched between his hands. He will be worrying it, twisting it, threatening its elasticity. _My name is… P-please call me Yuuri._

Yuuri. _Yuuri._

 _Yuuri_ , Viktor will gasp, half-choking on the syllables. He will roll each letter around on his tongue, testing heft, flavor. They are like candy, possessed of sweetness and a bubble gum stretch. He will adore it. He will say it again— awed—and again— reverent— and again—impassioned, _desperate_ , so terribly, totally in love that there is a _physicality_ to it, a weight, a _gravity_ , and he will already be leaning closer, compelled by the overpowering force of it. _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri…!_

Yuuri will be laughing. Crying. 

_Y-Yes, Viktor…?_

_Yuuri!_ Viktor is gleefully going to trill, _Will you marry me?_ )

“Yes?” Eros giggles, jiggles. Embers are crumbling from the tip of his cigarette, winking out in the atmosphere like falling stars. The cigarette holder arcs between them, trailing a comet-tail as it drifts to the left, and Eros to the right, and he cants close to coo, “What are you yowling about? Is there some sort of problem… Vicchan?”

“ _Eros!_ ”

( _I wonder_ , Eros said earlier today, forgoing proper greetings in favor of coy leers and lifted knees. Dressed in little more than black gossamer, Viktor found him poised inside his dressing room’s doorframe with a tube of lipstick pinched between his painted fingers, the makeup’s ruddy tip already conformed to his lower lip. It was like watching the Cheshire reappear, one swipe of his smile at a time. Eros purred, _Do you think, Mister Nikiforov, that if I tried very_ hard, _I could make you redder than whoever served as Russian Red’s namesake?_

_Yes,_ Viktor had chuckled, immediate, blustering the petals in a held bouquet. _There is no doubt in my mind._

_Really? Not one in your whole head?_

_No._

_What about in your head?_

_You already asked— oh._

_Oh look,_ Eros snickered, parted lips popping into a magnificently scarlet leer, _you were right, Vitya._

 _Eroooos…!_ ) 

“Oh dear. Keep that up, darling,” his simpering lover warns, “and I’ll have to give you a _real_ reason for whimpering my name.”

Although entirely spent, Viktor can still feel himself twitching. Amazing. This boy is amazing. 

“A _good_ reason…?” he wheedles, trusting. Hoping. Squeaking, startled by a mischievous tap to his scalp. 

“Mmm,” a playful Eros muses, “maybe something like…” 

( _Puppies!_ Viktor is squealing four months from now, pulling up photo after photo to show Eros on his iPhone. They are lying together, side by side and shoulder to shoulder, their ankles tangled in the air and their elbows on the mattress. _My Makka had her first litter, and they are the cutest things! Look, look!_

 _Oh my_ God, Eros will squeak, fingertips splayed sweetly over summer rose cheeks. He is wearing glasses: Thick and blue and chunky, and Viktor will have never seen them before. _No one has ever seen them before_ , Eros is going to tell him. Soon. In this moment, however, he gushes, _What are their names, Vitya?_

_I haven’t decided yet. I wanted— well, I_ thought, Viktor corrects, sheepishly, cheerfully, _you could help me…?_

Whenever the younger man beams, it is like sunshine warming the depths of Viktor’s cold, lonely heart. 

_I can think of one name, at least_ …) 

“ _Vicchan_ ,” Eros breathes, thumbing hearts into his temple, “will you… kiss me?” 

Neither is surprised when Viktor does, indeed, whimper.

And when he finally leaves the dressing room, he is wearing more lipstick that Eros. 

**XXX**


End file.
